Pascale explained that Madame Currygan and Tomaso Coliccio had been Julián Carax’s literary agents for over twenty-five years, and promised she’d arrange for them to see me.

* * *

Madame Currygan’s agency was on Rue de Rennes. Legend had it in the trade that over the years she had turned her office into an exquisite orchid garden, and Pascale advised me to take a new plant for her collection as an offering. Pascale was a friend of the members of the so-called Currygan Brigade, an imposing quartet of women of different nationalities who worked for Madame Currygan and through whose good auspices I managed to secure an audience with Carax’s agent.

Flowerpot in hand, I turned up at the agency. The members of the Currygan Brigade (Hilde, Claudia, Norma, and Tonya) mistook me for the errand boy from the corner florist. As soon as I opened my mouth, however, my identity was revealed. Once the mistake had been clarified, they led me to the office where Madame Currygan awaited. When I stepped in I noticed a glass cabinet with the complete works of Julián Carax and a splendid botanical garden. Madame Currygan listened patiently while she enjoyed a cigarette with which she filled the room with floating cobwebs.

“Yes, Julián did talk about Daniel and Bea sometimes,” she said. “But that was a long time ago. I haven’t heard from Julián in ages. He used to visit me often, but . . .”

“Did he get ill?”

“I suppose one could say he did, yes.”

“What with?”

“Melancholy.”

“Perhaps Signor Coliccio will know something about him.”

“I doubt it. I speak to Tomaso every week on work matters, and from what I gather he hasn’t heard from Julián either for at least three years. But you can try. Let me know if you find anything out.”

Her colleague Don Tomaso lived in a barge on the banks of the Seine, together with his wife, an editor called Elaine. The barge was packed with books and anchored half a kilometer west of the Île de la Cité. Elaine received me on the quayside with a warm smile. “You must be the boy from Barcelona,” she said.

“That’s me.”

“Come on board. Tomaso is reading an unbearable manuscript and will be glad for the interruption.”

Signor Coliccio had the air of a sea dog and wore a captain’s cap. He had silvery hair, but still preserved the smile of a mischievous child. After listening to my story, he remained silent for a while before speaking his mind.

“Look, young man. There are two things that are practically impossible to find in Paris. One of them is a decent pizza. The other is the whereabouts of Julián Carax.”

“Let’s say I give up on the pizza, and make do with Julián Carax,” I ventured.

“Never give up on a good pizza,” he advised. “What makes you think that Julián, supposing he’s still alive, will want to speak to you?”

“Why should he be dead?”